3507 


H  Y  L  A  S 

And  Other  Poems 
EDWIN   PRESTON   DARGAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
WILLIAM  A.  NITZE 


T 


— ,    /f/4 


YL  A  S 


AND     OTHER     POEMS 


EDWIN  PRESTON  DARGAN 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
1910 


Copyright  1909  by  Edwin  P.  Dargan 
All  Rights  Re»«ry«d 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTOW,  U.  S.  A 


£5  07 


DEDICATION 

A  celle  dont  la  voix  ravive  I'  allegresse, 
A  celle  dont  la  main  sail  efleurer  le  coeur 
Sans  blesser,  pour  guerir;  a  la  chere  Princesse 
Lointaine  de  I'  Azur,  du  Reve,  du  bonheur! 


HYLAS:  AN  ELEGY ,. .,. ... . .,  9 

LYRICS 

Wings  of  Sunset .  19 

There  is  a  Garden 21 

A  Friend 23 

Out  of  the  Past 24 

"Stint  Lachrymae  Rerum" .  .  . 25 

Paragot  to  Joanna 26 

Lindor  to  Enriqueta 28 

Pellegrini  D'Amore.  ...... 29 

A  Day  of  Love 30 

Schweigen  Im  Walde . 31 

MEDITATIONS. 

Whom  the  Gods  Love 35 

A  Blind  Man  Speaks 36 

Ocean 37 

In  the  Ragged  Mountains 39 

Hoc  Exiguum ..  ., 42 

A  Creed A 43 

Weltgeist 44 

SONNETS 

Keats    .  .  51 

Landor 52 

"Sonnets  From  the  Portugese" 53 

Morning  Glories 54 

5, 


CONTENTS 

Violets   55 

Roses   56 

"4  Moments  Ornament" 57 

Rosemary  for  Remembrance 58 

Al  Amor  Del  Lumbre 59 

Dream  of  a  Tryst 60 

Finis    6 1 

Lux  Oceano 62 

Alone    64 

To  a  Portrait  by  Shannon 65 

"The  Golden  Rose" 66 

A  Singer  at  a  Matinee 67 

Casaubon  to  Dorothea 68 

Nebulous    69 


HYLAS:  AN  ELEGY 


"For,  sparing  of  his  sacred  strength,  not  often 

Among  us  darkling  here  the  lord  of  light 

Makes  manifest  his  music  and  his  might 
In  hearts  that  open  and  in  lips  that  soften 

With  the  soft  flame  and  heat  of  songs  that 
shine. 

Thy  lips  indeed  he  touched  with  bitter  wine, 
And  nourished  them  indeed  with  bitter  bread; 

Yet  surely  from  his  hand  thy  soul's  food 
came, 

The  fire  that  scarred  thy  spirit  at  his  flame 
Was  lighted,  and  thine  hungering  heart  he  fed 

Who  feeds  our  hearts  with  fame." 


HYLAS:  AN  ELEGY 

(In  Memory  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne, 
died  April  10,  1909.) 

Thy  winds  have  wailed  it  and  thy  seas  have 
borne 

The  throbbing  word:  our  latest  minstrel 
leaves 

His  jewel-isle  whose  lone  Urania  grieves. 

Thy  winds  have  wailed  it  and  thy  seas  shall 
mourn ! 

The  monarchs  are  no  more — as  thou  hast 

willed; 
And  England's  robe  is  torn 

By  desperate  hands,  her  heart  has  turned 

and  thrilled, 

Her  lordliest  lion  dies,  the  race  of  lions  is  ful 
filled. 

That  dark  and  lovely  crypt  spreads  not  her 
gates 

For  one  whose    brows  no    ruler's    laurel 
crowned ; 

Scorner  of    laws    and    kingdoms,    no    set 
ground 

Hallowed  by  all  thy  brethren  supplicates 

Thy    dust;    no    boyhood's    angel-seeming 

choir 
For  one  who  fronted  Fates, 

Singer  of  Hertha  and  stark  Life's  desire, 
No  wreaths  save  those  of  Proserpine,  no  re 
quiem  but  a  lyre ! 

9 


Nay,  they  have  found  an  ampler  place  for 
thee, 

Where   hollows  of  great  billows  in   each 
fold 

Take  sunset-robes  of  laminated  gold. 

Thy  fathers'  church-yard  and  thy  Mother- 
Sea 

Shall  give  their  child  an  airier  sweeter  rest, 
If  any  rest  may  be 

For  feet  that  trod  the  mad  eternal  quest, 
For  him  who  once  hath  known  that  luring 
Cytherean  breast. 

Thou  canst  not  rest!    Thou  canst  not  sink 
and  share 

Earth's  random  immortality,  be  a  bed 

For  flowers  that  nodding  seawards  o'er  thy 
head 

Make  thee  to  yearn  and  stir;  for  men  de 
clare 

Thy  churchyard   swiftly  crumbles  to  the 

wave, 
Thy  leaping  heart  shall  fare 

Forth   to  remembered  tempests;   and   thy 

grave 

Shall  shudder  from  thee.     Who  shall  uplift 
thee  then,  and  who  shall  save? 


10 


Around  thee  silver  tresses  of  the  storm 
Weave  perilous  spells,  and  thou  shalt  be 

the  joy 

Of  lithe  and  twining  naiads  that  decoy 
To  the   hush'd  halls   below;    as   once   the 

warm 
Dark  Ephydatia  and  the  April-eyed 

Nycheia  stole  the  form 
Whose  bending  beauty  they  had  well  des 
cried 

Above  the  pale  stream's  edge,  full-mooned, 
while  Mysian  shepherds  cried: 

"O  Hylas,  Hylas,  Hylas!"  Then  the  Chian 
Cliffs  were  dismayed  with  wrath  of  Her- 

akles, 

And  Argo's  men  on  farther  toiling  seas 
Heard  their  lost  hero  call,  a  stricken  lion, 
"O  Hylas,  Hylas •!",  in  the  sad  night,  alone. 

And  now  what  nymphs  of  Dian 
Shall  greet  their  coming  lord,  while  the 

slow  tone 
Of  grave  winds'   diapason  wakes  the  loves 

that  thou  hast  known? 


II 


O'er  brightest  waves  their  gleaming  net  is 

spread — 

Felise  and  Fragoletta  and  Faustine — 
The  newer  darlings,  mutable  of  mien, 
Our  fear,  our  vision  !    Back  from  the  ban 
ished  dead 
Come  Mary,  queen,  and  Sappho  who  had 

burned 

To  clasp  so  dear  a  head ; 
Behold  thy  panther-mistress,  whose  body 

turned 

Shark-wise  and  leapt  upon  thee  for  the  prey 
she  took  and  spurned! 

Comes  Messalina  in  her  gilded  shame, 
And  all  the  queens  of  quivering  honeyed 

breath, 

Planting  red  love  upon  the  lips  of  Death. 
Fair  names  and  strange  we  know,  but  not 

the  Name 
Compact  of  precious  hope  and  tremulous 

woe 

That  ravish  and  reclaim!— 
Heard  only  when  our  chosen  star  hangs 

low, 
Breathed  only  when  our  aching  arms  yearn 

for  the  sunset-glow. 


12 


Through  bright  and  bitter  waves  they  bear 

thee  on — 

Sad  hard  Dolores  and  wan  Proserpine, 
Till  speeds  a  maid  whose  argent  shoulders 

shine 

And  lift  thee  nearer  holiest  Avalon. 
This  is  the  glitter  of  flashing  limbs  that  dart 

From  lofty  Calydon! 
This  is  thine  Atalanta,  pure  of  heart, 
Who  quells  the  darker  passionate  hordes  and 

leads  thee  far  apart. 

O  dazzling  ramparts    broidered    by    the 

wave! 

O  radiant  saintly  City  of  the  Sun ! 
O  Avalon,  blest  isle !  Since  time  begun 
Here  is   the   bourne   our  vaster  longings 

crave ; 
Here  farthest  Deity  calls  out,  "Aspire!" 

And  chosen  spirits  lave 
Their  crimes  by  splendors  of  performed 

desire, 
A  Paradise  for  those  alone  whose  souls  have 

stormed  the  fire ! 


The  ramparts  gird  about  an  Ivory  Tower, 
Around  which  slowly  climbs  a  spiral  stair 
Trodden  by  panting  heroes  that  upbear 
To  cloudy  heights,   to  chasm,   throne   or 

bower 
Lamps  of  undying  flames  that  soar  and 

scorch — 

A  Pentecost  of  power ! 
Whether   from   maiden    shrine    or    Stoic 

porch 
Above  some  unknown  burning  God  draws  and 

inspires  the  torch. 

I  see  thy  brothers  of  the  olden  faith, 
The  beauty-blest,  the  martyrs  then  as  now, 
Each  haunted  poet  on  whose  pallid  brow 
The  Tongue  descended;  cloud-clad  as   a 

wraith 
Great  Hugo  hurls  the  thunderbolts  of  yore, 

And  child-like  Shelley  saith : 
"Ah,  leave  me,  Tennyson,  I  can  no  more! 
Hylas,  take  up    the    torch    which    once    my 

Adonais  bore." 


For  here  thy  living  fingers  seized  a  brand 
Lit  by  mad  Villon  in  a  dungeon's  gloom 
Long  since.    As  once  o'er  kindling  heather 

and  broom 
Swift  runners  sped  their  flame  from  hand 

to  hand, 
This  shalt  thou  grasp  and  sweep  aloft,  till 

pain 

Of  failing  arms  demand 
Proud  Landor  and  Mazzini  to  sustain, 
And  ravening  vikings  that  proclaim  Equali 
ty's  slow  reign. 

Alas,  I  cannot  sing  their  Freedom's  song! 
I  cannot  cherish  all  their  brotherhood  ! 
For  ever  in  Time's    widening    courts    the 

good 

Of  all  is  pleaded  by  a  few;  the  wrong 
Of  multitudes  bedims  the  golden  right. 

And  shall  the  blinded  throng 
Of  tame  democracy  bear  down  and  blight 
To  dull  unloveliness  the  chosen  children  of 
the  light? 


Yet  with  this  hope  I  leave  thee — there  shall 
spring, 

Even    while  the    kindred  of    our  Hylas 
mourn, 

A  bearer  for  the  torch  that  must  be  borne, 

A  wiser  lover,  strong  to  work  and  sing ! 

And  startled  cities  from  mean  sleep  arise 
To  praise  the  poet,  king, 

Enchanter,  whose    white   wand    shall    hu 
manize 

Dear  Beauty,  child  of  God,  our  waiting  sister 
of  the  skies. 


LYRICS 


WINGS  OF  SUNSET 

O  jewel-star,  deriding  all  desire, 

Deride  not  mine ! 
Instil  in  me  the  golden  guarding  fire 

That  twines  a  shrine— 

And  press  from  me  the  hot  praise  flaming 
higher 

Of  vine  and  wine ! 

Or  else,  so  nobly  lonely  in  thy  birth, 

Clear  evening  star, 
Imbue  in  me  the  mellow  dewy  mirth 

That  bore  me  far, 

Then  when  my  heart  had  felt  no  mould  of 
earth, 

Nor  knew  a  scar. 


Out  from  the  radiant  flame  that  redly  gems 

The  waste  of  air, 

Two  crimson    pageants    wave,    that    sorrow 
stems 

Or  still  despair; 
And  these  were  kings  adorned  with  diadems, 

And  those  were  fair ! 

Two  foremost  shapes  that  seem  the  same  to 

me 

Uplift  their  hands, 
Two  voices  name  the  throbbing  Name  to  me 

That  breaks  and  brands 
All  alien  loves  that  laughing  came  to  me 
In  alien  lands. 

19 


The  frailer  figure  spoke,  a  shattered  rose, 

And  stained  with  rain  : 
"My  name  is  Abnegation;  men  my  foes 

My  wit  disdain; 
They  hasten  where  my  taller  comrade  goes — 

My  master,  Pain." 


The  sun  forsakes  the  phantoms  as  they  hover 

Adown  the  sky, 
The  swift  rain  smites  them  never  to  recover — 

The  Gleams  that  die ! 
A  cold  blast  lashes  every  wishful  lover, 

He  knows  not  why. 

Before  they  go  the  kings  have  sworn  together 

Beyond  return, 
No  reborn  love  shall  laugh  in  April  weather, 

Howe'er  we  yearn — 
No  ashes  shall  revive  their  whitened  feather 

Within  the  urn. 

They  pass,  they  vanish  into  realms  of  Doubt, 

Save  where  there  flows 
Some  vapor  streamer  floating  round  about; 

As  once  there  rose 
Excalibur,  that  carved  a  kingdom  out, 

Ere  knighthood's  close. 


20 


"THERE  IS  A  GARDEN" 

There  is  a  garden  by  the  summer  sea, 
Where  roses  riot  all  the  livelong  year, 
Where  vivid  suns  retint  incessantly 
Crimson  and  green  regalias,  fresh  or  sere. 
Set  in  the  burning  storied  South  of  old, 
There  is  a  garden  on  this  Coast  of  Gold! 

Stark  aloes  rise    and    glistening   palms    that 

spring 

And  spread  their  tops  exultant;  and  I  know 
Where  scent-packed  feathery  mimosas  cling 
To  passionate  oleander-buds  aglow. 
Where  dust-clad  leaves  droop  from  the  olive- 
tree, 
There  is  a  garden  by  the  summer  sea. 

The  terraces  and  marble  balustrades, 

The  pebbled  walks,  the  bowers  cool  and  soft 

Are  made    for   dreaming;    and   the   stealing 

shades, 

The  night-winds  and  the  fierce  mistral  how  oft 
Have  found  me  yonder  where  I  long  to  be — 
There  is  a  garden  by  the  summer  sea ! 

Beyond  the  wall  the  azure  waters  lie, 
Held  by  the  azure  hills.    The  Esterelles 
Faint  in  the  sapphire  of  a  cloudless  sky; 
And  one  white  boat,  a  fleeting  swallow,  tells 
Of  happy  song  and  vision — Italy! 
There  is  a  garden  by  the  summer  sea. 


21 


But  when  the  moonlight  seeks  the  Coast  of 

Gold 

And  drives  a  quivering  ruddy  serpent's  trail 
Within  the  ripples — when    the    wind    grows 

cold, 

Comes  to  the  garden  one  who  shall  not  fail, 
Black-robed,    in    witching    dance,    alert    and 

free!     .     .     . 
There  is  a  garden  by  the  summer  sea. 

Oh,  let  my  words  blow  with  the  breezes  there, 
And  let  her  shielding  pinions  close  enfold 
Warm  Memory's  body  from  this  wintry  air! 
There  is  a  garden  on  the  Coast  of  Gold, 
Hinting  of  heaven — there  is  a  place  for  me — 
There  is  a  garden  by  the  summer  sea ! 


22 


A  FRIEND 

He  who'll  accuse  me, 
Fairly  abuse  me, 

Make  me  or  mend — 
Prosper  and  drink  with  me, 
Close  eyes  and  sink  with  me, 

That  is  a  friend. 

Knowing  my  failing, 
Spite  of  my  railing 

Never  to  bend; 
Loving  the  best  of  me, 
Nursing  the  rest  of  me : 

That  is  a  friend. 

He  who  will  share  with  me, 
Fare  with  me,  bear  with  me, 

Up  to  the  end; 
Willing  to  lie  for  me, 
All  to  defy  for  me, 
Asking  to  die  for  me — 

That  is  my  friend! 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

I  know  a  song  whose  words  are  made  of  tears, 

Shadowy,  solemn,  sweet; 
Borne  from  the  glory  of  the  golden  years 

Whose  tale  is  now  complete. 

I  know  a  voice  that  fills  me  with  its  sadness, 

So  mournfully  it  seems 
Unceasingly  to  wake  the  buried  madness 

Of  long-forgotten  dreams. 

I  know  a  soul  which  shares  with  that  of  mine 

The  pain  of  darksome  ways, 
Which  craves  and  crowns  the  vanished  joy  di 
vine 

Of  happier,  saintlier  days. 

O  voice  of  sympathy,  O  song  of  sorrow, 

O  brave  enduring  soul, 
Somewhere  before  us  in  the  mystic  morrow 

A  faith  shall  make  us  whole. 


24 


"SUNT  LACHRYMAE  RERUM   .  .   ." 

You    sang,    and    the    words    were    rounded 
pearls — 

You  ceased,  and  the  night  was  lead. 
The  dark  crawled  in.    The  Moment  was 

Captured  and  smothered  and  dead. 
Oh,  melody !  Is  there  a  farthest  star 
To  hold  the  tears  where  the  wonders  are? 
"Immortal,  1  bide  my  Judgment  Bar," 

The  perishing  Moment  said. 

We  kissed,  and  that  was  the  soonest  done, 

And  little  left  to  do. 
Shadow  and  silence  stole  across 

The  face,  the  flower  of  You. 
Was  it  the  wisest?   They  alone 
Who  saw  First  Void  below  the  throne 
And  leapt  remember — and  we  have  known 

What  falling  angels  knew. 

I  swear  those  pitiful  moments  die 

Like  babes,  of  the  after-cold! 
They  shine  like  a  sudden  lantern-flash 

On  hidden  heaps  of  gold. 
The  light  departs;  does  the  gold  remain? 
Have  you  been  as  Gods?   Be  as  Gods  again ! 
And  the  pitiful  beautiful  moments  slain 

Shall  live  as  of  old,  of  old! 


PARAGOT  TO  JOANNA 

Did  you  weep  to  find  me  wandered  from  the 

garden, 

When  the  sun  was  slumbering  low? 
Did  you  wholly  scorn  me  then  or  did  you 

pardon 
Long  ago? 
Have  you  wistfully  forgiven  me,  my  lover, 

That  rival  Muse  (you  said!)  — 
But  the  frosts  of  years  have  never  sought  to 

cover 
Your  dear  head ! 

Did    you   fear    that   fancy's  random   spark 

would  perish, 

As  you  knew  my  wayward  heart  ? 
For  I  never  deemed  that  household  warmth 

could  cherish 
Singer's  art! 
But  oh,  my  dear,  the  doubt  had  fled  forever, 

When  first  I  worshipped  you; 
And  long  before  I  swore  your  trust  had  ever 
Kept  me  true. 

Ah,  had  I  come  and  spoken  in  the  gloaming, 

Made  you  believe  I  cared, 
Had  I  only  sped  my  fancy  in  her  roaming, 

Had  I  dared  !- 
We  should  never  think  it   now    a    thousand 

pities 

That  the  light  has  left  our  sky, 
We  should  never  dwell  apart  in  stranger  cit 
ies, 

You  and  I      ... 
26 


If  I  only  could  have  found  you  in  the  gar 
den! 

Long  ago — 
I  would  ne'er  have    feared   your   scorn    nor 

needed  pardon, 
When  the  sun  was  slumbering  low. 


27 


LINDOR  TO  ENRIQUETA 

A  lying  smile  and  a  wayward  glance, 

A  sinner's  heart  led  out  for  a  dance 

By    the    hand    of     Our     Sovereign     Lady, 

Chance — 

Rose-colored  the  morn, 
And  so  with  a  laugh  the  Devil  was  born. 

Sweet  Love,  God-given,  we  called  him  then, 
The  keeper  of  treasure  for  famished  men, 
Light  kisses  for  arrows,  Heart's-chamber  his 

den — 

This  the  carol  we  sung, 
You  and  I  in  the  days  when  the  Devil  was 

young. 

The  depths  of  darkness  where  all  men  go, 
Bitter  soul-sorrow  which  none  must  know, 
And  the  poisoned  fountain's  rancorous  flow- 
Hope  lay  so  cold 
In  the  weary  years  when  the  Devil  was  old. 

A  flash  of  light  making  all  things  plain, 
A  blinding  flash  in  a  desert  of  pain- 
Life  and  the  kind  old  world  again! 

"Delivered!"  I  cried, 
For  then  in  his  frenzy  the  Devil  had  died. 


28 


PELLEGRINI  D'AMORE 

When  we  turned, 

As  we  burned, 
From  the  silly  city  and  the  black-clad  men; 

When  we  started 

Throbbing-hearted 
For    we    knew    not    what — some    splendor 

glimpsed  again — 
The  stars,  tear-seen,  shook  lances  all  above 

Our  last,  fleet 

Mad,  sweet 
Adventure  in  forsaken  fields  of  love. 

And  the  way, 

As  by  day, 
Seemed  surely  to  lead  out — no  matter  where  1 

But  the  peace    • 

Of  release 

Made  us  forget  (forewarning  of  despair) 
The  satin  pall  now  brooding  close  above 

Our  last,  mad, 

Breathless,  bad 
Adventure  on  the  hardy  hills  of  love. 

Then  we  stopped, 

And  I  dropped 
Your  hand,  the  proper  pathway  to  attain; 

Through  the  dire 

Mist  and  mire 

Came  shivering  loneliness  that  cut  like  rain ! 
Far-seeing  gods  applauded  from  above 

This  mad,  last, 

Grey,  aghast 

Adventure  in  the  frozen  fields  of  love. 
29 


A  DAY  OF  LOVE 

The  might  of  a  fierce  endeavor, 
The  pulse  of  a  passion  new-born, 

The  need  to  do — now  or  never! 
The  clasping  of  hands  in  the  morn, 

Ah,  sweet! 
The  clasping  of  hands  in  the  morn. 

A  song  with  glad  voices  unbroken, 
The  leaping  of  hearts  in  tune, 

Love-words,  whispered,  unspoken, 
The  touch  of  the  lips  at  noon, 

Ah,  sweet! 
The  touch  of  the  lips  at  noon, 

The  wasting  of  flame  into  ashes, 

(Cold  ashes,  and  who  would  grieve?) 

The  downward  droop  of  the  lashes, 
And  the  falling  of  tears  at  eve. 

Ah,  sweet! 
The  falling  of  tears  at  eve. 


SCHWEIGEN  IM  WALDE 

The  world  has  yet  her  wonder-spells : 
The  eyes  that  are  all  trust  may  see 
That  whispering  Dryad  hidden  in  her  tree; 
Dead  Laura  in  Elysium  dwells, 
And  Helen  sleeps  on  asphodels, 
But  some  one  lives  for  me 
And  the  dear  shy  violet  never  tells 
What  she  says  to  me — what  she  says  to  me. 

The  world  has  yet  her  wonder-maids : 
Where  calm  grey  beeches  stand  like  towers, 
And  slender  anemones  soothe  the  hours, 
There  dance  the  leaves  in  flickering  shades, 
And  sun  with  shade  the  soft  charm  braids, 
And  some  one  waits  for  me ! 
In  the  light  that  never  fades, 
She  waits  for  me — she  waits  for  me. 

Swiftly  before  the  high  hills  gloom, 
Bury  the  buds  in  a  small  moist  tomb, 

Where  the  yellowing  leaves  with  madden 
ing  whirl 

Dance  to  the  wild  winds'  skreigh  and  skirl ! 

For  the  powers  of  outer  darkness  loom, 

The  shadows  fall — we  flee     . 
Shall  I  never  touch  that  fluttering  curl 
So  near  to  me — so  near  to  me? 


MEDITATIONS 


WHOM  THE  GODS  LOVE 

Gone  with  the  secret  closed  upon  their  lips, 
Gone  are  the  best,  the  beautiful !  They  saw 
No  glory  where  the  sullen  shadow  slips, 
They  found  no  pleasure  in  imperfect  law; 

Leaving  to  us  the  puzzle  and  the  hate, 
The  compromise  that  cloaks  itself  as  kind 
And  human  fellowship;  ours  is  the  Fate 
That  would  be  constant,  were  she  not  so  blind. 

But  they — do  you    not    feel    their    nearness 

now? 

Do  voices  hover  in  the  noiseless  air? 
Those  eyes,   that  saintly  smile,   that  stately 

brow, 
They  speak,  they  strive  to  tell  us  what  and 

where. 

They  know !  How  tense  it  is !  Have 

you  not  heard, 

Echoing  from  the  everlasting  hills, 
Some  whisper  ?  Oh !  for  one  time-shattering 

word, 
Cross  it  our  purposes,  mar  it  our  wills, 

It  would  outweigh  all  volumes  and  all  minds 
In  all  the  world  !  We  are  heavy-fated  then. 
Each  panting  soul  goes  forward  till  it  finds, 
And  they  went  farther,  found — and  heed  not 
men. 


35 


A  BLIND  MAN  SPEAKS 

I  squandered  light  when  light  was  meant  for 

doing; 
Now  light  has  left  me,   and  my  days   are 

blank. 

What  recompense  is  granted  for  my  rueing? 
What  spirit  still  the  guileless  gods  to  thank? 

The  darkened  days  flit  by  in  swift  pursuing, 
Bright  days  and  fair  for  those  who  still  may 

mend — 

The  young  on  pleasure  bent  or  petty  wooing, 
The  elders,  mindful  of  their  latter  end, 

And  those  between,  who  coldly  chose  ambi 
tion 

And  those  who  simply  linger  in  the  sun — 
All,  all  can  see  the  flower  or  its  fruition, 
The  strong,  rejoicing  in  a  race  begun. 

While  I — but  still  there's  waiting,  wisdom, 

learning, 

Ears  and  three  senses  more !  Then,  or  I  rust, 
Throw  out  the  coin,  and  while  'tis  in  the  turn 
ing, 
I  choose  for  Contemplation — since  I  must. 


OCEAN 

Over  a  great  sea  never  rent  by  rudders, 
On  opal  waves  whose  light  withdraws  and 

shudders, 

A  single  star  hangs  heavy  from  the  sky — 
Of  heaven  the  one  unknown,  unwinking  eye. 
What  was  the  star?    Why  bends  it  vacant 

gaze 
On  that  green  waste  eternal  nights  of  days? 

Here  comes  no  mariner,  nor  king,  nor  craven ; 
The  endless  waters  never  touch  a  haven ; 
The  sad  star  never  wept  for  trust  betrayed, 
Nor  friendship  lost,  nor  beauty-blighted  maid. 
Ah,  who  can  tell  what  Builder  nailed  it  there, 
To  brood  alone  on  waves  and  empty  air ! 

Here  comes  no  priest,  nor  any  step  of  lovers, 
No  voice  of  God  in  all  that  stillness  hovers, 
No  voice  of  man,  nor  beam  of  fulsome  sun, 
And  gulls  above  and  fish  beneath  are  none  .  .  . 
No  laughter  and  no  murmur  and  no  toil, 
No  human  soul  the  Nature-soul  to  soil. 

Yet  somewhere  in  that  all-unchartered  space 
The  foaming  waters  angrily  give  place 
For  a  steep  rock  that  rises  rough  and  jagged, 
Coated    with     mosses,     dismal,     black    and 

ragged ; 
And  round  its  edge  the  green  waves  run  more 

whitely, 
Lacing  a  garment  for  that  crag  unsightly. 

37 


That  lonely  rock,  that  faint  and  stricken  star, 
Whose  gleam  unanswered  beckons  from  afar, 
The  wandering  graves  beneath,  that  line  of 

white — 
And     Solitude — and       Murder — and     grey 

Fright— 

0  lonely  rock,  O  luring  stricken  star, 

1  fear  to  whisper  what  your  portents  are ! 


No  more  of  Ocean — evil  sea  of  Hate ! 
The  foam  that  on  thy  dreadful  winds  is 

carried 
Comes  from  pale  lips  of  those  whom  thou 

hast  harried, 

And  severed  hearts  moan  of  a  foolish  fate 

Through  all  thy  minstrelsy;  in  myriad  cries 

Thy  slain  sepultured  legions  clamor  to  the 

skies. 

But  yonder  with  the  silences  that  dwell 
Augustly  on  the  snows  that  close  encumber 
Eternal  mountains  in  eternal  slumber, 
Bowed  to  deep  rest  by  some  world-wizard's 

spell — 
There  shall  I  roam  with  wistful  heart  and 

free, 
A  shy  and  virgin  Muse  my  viewless  company. 

The  mountains!  Oh,  the  mountains!  They 

are  mine! 

Their  peaks  of  azure  and  of  amethyst 
Shatter  and  quell  the  low  and  worldly  mist ; 
Aloft  their  lordly  ramparts  dare  and  shine ! 
My  sleeping  greyhounds  guard  the  gates 

wherein 
Enter  ethereal  joys  and  passion  purged  of  sin. 


39 


Some  seek  you  in  your  pure  communion 
white; 

And  some,  under  full-robed  waving  boughs 
of  green 

Which  merry  sun-flecks  steal  and  dance  be 
tween, 

Lie  in  soft  haze,  forgetful  of  the  fight, 

And  mindful  only  that  the  month  is  June — 
Far-off,  love  may  be  sweet — but  sweeter  here 
to  swoon. 

And  others  enter  only  in  the  Spring, 
Simple  and  primal  souls,  friends  of  Illusion, 
Content  with  colored  joy  and  frank  profu 
sion. 
What  life  abroad,  what  hands  that  rise  and 

cling! 
What  incense-blooms  flush  and  suffuse  the 

air, 

Fragile    and   holy-born,    as    is    a    maiden's 
prayer  1 

For  me,  when  old  October  crouches  down 
A  tawny  tiger  on  your  ample  breast, 
Watchful  of  Winter — then,  no  thought  of 

rest! 
Strength  and  the  sting  of  winds  and  skies 

that  frown ! 
Is  your  house  swept  and  bare?  Has  Death 

begun, 
When    changeless   laurel    smiles  beneath   a 

brooding  sun? 


40 


Firm  fastnesses  of  Hope !   Enduring  gods ! 

Courage  and  freedom  were  your  ancient 
gifts. 

Give  more  and   more   to   us,   whose   sick 
faith  shifts 

From  truth  to  dismal  doubt,  from  souls  to 
clods. 

Let  the  great  hills  render  their  high  ac 
count  : 

'Some    stars     have   dwindled — yes!      It     is 
enough  to  mount." 


HOC  EXIGUUM 

Seemed  it  such  a  little  time, 

Orator  of  old? 
Seems  it  still  a  lesser  time, 

Now  your  bones  are  cold? 

The  world  is  but  the  middle  term 

Of  one  vast  syllogism — 
Who  would  not  choose  to  live  a  worm, 

If  crowned  with  after-chrism? 

And  all  the  doings  of  this  earth 

Are  matters  of  derision 
To  him  who  sees  a  newer  birth 

In  the  very  newest  vision. 

With  all  my  heart!    The  world  is  nought; 

But  how,  most  noble  Pagan, 
Could  you  construct  a  Christian  thought, 

While  Pan  still  ruled,  or  Dagon? 

Full  fifty  years  before  the  age 

Such  doctrine  was  preferred       .     .     . 

And  Plato  too     .     .     .     O  worthy  sage, 
If  you  were  disinterred; 

Confronted  with  the  Fathers  there, 
What  would  you  have  to  say  ? — 

That  the  aeons  in  the  hitherwhere 
Still  dwarf  our  little  day. 


42 


A  CREED 

Lost  in  a  world  whose  burden  grows 
And  greatens  with  the  waste  of  time, 
Bound  to  a  mount  no  mortal  knows, 
Encumbered  ever  as  we  climb — 

What  hope  for  him  who  hears  the  Voice 
To  pause,  to  follow  and  obey, 
If  the  poor  heart  that  should  rejoice 
Lies  bleeding  to  the  naked  day? 

Yet  listen  lit  is  Beauty's  call. 
Imperious  goddess,  art  thou  near? 
To  saint  and  sinner,  to  us  all 
Thy  worship  and  thy  lips  are  dear. 

Ah,  listen !  Though  the  word  of  faith 
Should  blur  upon  the  open  book, 
Though  from  the  past  a  mournful  wraith 
Of  vengeance  and  of  fear  shall  look! 

Somewhere  the  beauty  made  for  man 
Shall  link  herself  with  humankind ; 
Somehow  the  song  that  youth  began 
Its  fuller  resonance  shall  find. 


43 


WELTGEIST 

I  am  the  eager  spirit  of  the  Earth. 
Through  galloping  ages,  I  have  loved  to-day 
What  I  have  left  to-morrow — in  hard  play 
Finding  all  fair  and  finding  nothing  worth. 

I  am  the  old  authentic  spirit  of  Pain: 

I  was  with  light,  with  Void  in  her  travailing; 

I  dwelt  in  the  Dawn-clad  East  and  held  my 

reign 
With  shadowy  kings  that  knew  not  name  of 

king. 

Stealing  upon  the  tides  that  never  cease, 

I  saw  in  ancient  Asia  sages  dream — 

Dead  eyes    and    body    forgotten — of   things 

that  seem : 
I  am  the  spirit  of  all-oblivious  Peace. 

I  am  the  spirit  of  far-off  fluttering  Hope : 
Between  the  cloud  and  the  fire  I  swept  the 

land, 

A  beacon  for  that  race  so  rare,  so  banned, 
That  strayed  to  Canaan  and  paused  on  Si 
nai's  slope. 

And  I  swerved  to  other  sleeping  continents, 

where 

White  isles  on  the  lovely  mother  Aegean  lay ; 
I  saw  a  new  sun  rise  on  Eleusis'  bay — 
I  am  the  spirit  of  Beauty  and  all  things  fair. 


Where  was  the  goddess  whom  I  dared  not 

greet  ? 

I  knew  the  whole  of  Helen's  heavenly  grace, 
I  loved  each  darling  ringlet  round  Dian's  face, 
I  followed  the  lure  of  Daphne's  hurrying  feet. 

I  loosened  the  girdle  of  Aphrodite, 
I  strove  and  conquered  Apollo's  perfect  form, 
And  roamed  the  flowers  with  Persephone, 
And  rode  with  Triton  in  the  mastering  storm  I 

There  in  the  shining  isles  what  songs  were 

sung, 

When  only  could  I  be  the  spirit  of  Joy, 
Of  laughing  Loves — when  all  old  Love  was 

young — 
When  Cupid  and  Psyche  were  only  girl  and 

boy! 

Swift  on  the  dawning  came  the  hardy  morn; 
Calmly  I  wore  the  cloak  of  Regulus, 
Greatly  I  bore  the  heart  of  Marius, 
And  fiercely  felt  the  imperial  Roman  scorn. 

I  am  the  spirit  of  a  stalwart  Faith : 
Clasping  the  naked  cross  of  Calvary, 
The  saints  have  made  all  hate  a  memory — 
"Forgive"  and  "Follow  me"  the  Spirit  saith. 

While  even  as  Fathers  prayed  the  bolt  was 

hurled, 
And  hordes  invincible  stretched  their  hungry 

length 

Along  the  Alpine  slopes  to  cleanse  the  world. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  bare  barbarian  strength. 

45 


I  was  a  Hun  and  drained  my  goblet  grim. 
I  was  a  Frank  and  tossed  my  naming  hair; 
And  lo!  the  darkening  ages  followed  dim: 
I  am  the  spirit  of  a  still  Despair. 

I  was  the  spirit  of  a  courtly  Love, 

When  Richard    strove    from    Acre    for   the 

Tomb; 
The    crescent    receded,    the    red    cross    rose 

above, 
When  Rudel's  yearning   sails    were    blurred 

with  gloom. 

I  was  reborn  and  heard  the  glad  surprise 
Of  ancient  lore;  I  saw  the  glory  spread 
That  lightens  in  the  rapt  Madonnas'  eyes — 
It  shone  in  England  round  our  kingliest  head. 

I  am  the  scoffing  Spirit  that  Denied. 
Mocking  the  Mightiest,  claiming  the  law  of 

Thought, 

Rearing  a  Babel  of  bodies  and  houseswrought 
Only  with  hands — for  what  have  ye  beside  ? 

I  am  the  spirit  of  late-begotten  Woe, 
Self-fed,  self-torturing,  since  first  he  wept 
By  harsh  Geneva's  lake,  who  sent  a  flow 
Of  fiery  tears  upon  a  race  that  slept. 

Long  since  the  West  to  the  East  was  calling. 

The  East 

Answering  follows  an  ever-flying  West; 
The  West  for  the  world  has  spread  an  open 

feast : 

I  am  the  spirit  of  Liberty,  the  blest. 
46 


Yet  all  impatient  with  Progress  patent  and 

plain, 

So  cruel  and  crude,  I  pause;  for  all  is  One; 
And  I  could  weary  of  wheels  that  noisily  run, 
And  I  could  sigh  for  the  twilight  hours  again. 

Was  I  not  prouder  than  Caesar  in  his  pride? 
Was  I  not  wiser  than  Plato  with  his  lore  ? 
I  could  have  had  Zenobia  for  my  bride, 
I  could  have  turned  Aspasia  from  my  door! 

The  kings  of  the  earth  were  little  things  to 

me, 

Making  amid  the  rocking  stars  my  home; 
Lapped  in  the  moon's  fair  fleeces,   I  would 

roam, 
Watching  my  poor  world  turn  and  shine  and 

flee. 

Among  slain  souls  of  many,  I  alone 
Remember  Heaven,  and  I  alone  am  wise — 
Hearing  the  joy  that  mingles  with  the  moan, 
Seeing  the  dead  face  staring  toward  the  skies. 

There  are  many  worlds  and  waters.     And 

these  are  mine 

And  these  are  ours,  and  I,  your  waiting  soul, 
Hold  fast  your  disinheritance  divine, 
Knowing  the  part  that  merges  in  the  whole, 

Saying,  How  long,  O  Lord?    And  no  more 

wild, 
But  humble  and  pleading  I  almost  fear  to 

speak. 

Ye  are  my  brothers  and  sisters  and  I  am  weak. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  a  little  child. 
47 

4 


SONNETS 


Poet  of  sunny  numbers  or  of  night, 
Poet  of  starry  fays  and  sylvan  gloom, 
But  poet  ever  of  the  fadeless  bloom 
That  crowns  the  brow  of  Beauty  in  her  might. 
He  knew  what  seizures  grip  us  in  the  fight, 
What  deadly  languors  bring  us  to  the  tomb — 
He  knew  that  in  old  caverns  there  is  room 
For  her  whose  task  it  is  to  hold  the  light. 


Over  those  sacred  pages  will  I  pore 
Until  for  me  the  nightingale  shall  burn 
Her  heart  out  with  her  song !  I  see  return 
Lamia,  the  many-hued,  with  Autumn's  store 
Of  finished  blisses — Psyche,  as  of  yore, 
Pants  with  the  flying  lovers  round  their  Urn ! 


LANDOR 

Long  years  before  the  great  Olympian's  altar 
Kneeling,  you  sang  his  praise.     Your  incense 

rose 
More  fragrant  far  than    all    the   spice    that 

blows 
From  Eastern  isles:  what  cause  was  there  to 

falter? 
What  need  was  there  with  gods  of  gold  to 

palter? 

Yours  was  no  hand  to  stir  the  puppet-shows, 
Theirs  was  no  voice  to  vex  your  dear  repose, 
Your  minstrelsy  of  ancient  harp  and  psalter. 


Where  is  the  ardent  spirit  that  will  stay 
Within  the  confines  of  its  own  domain? 
Eager  and  strong  to  dare  you  fell  away 
Amid  the  tumult  loud  and  chaos  vain>. 
Then  did  you  know    shame,  sorrow,    anger, 

strife — 
The  many  jangled,  tangled  chords  of  life. 


"SONNETS     FROM     THE     PORTU 
GUESE" 

Let  not  the  volume  fall  within  your  hands, 
Save  fitly  it  may  greet  you — in  a  mood 
As  when  the  weight  of  dark  begins  to  brood 
On  common  objects  and  unlovely  lands. 
Then  all  inviolate  your  soul's  self  stands. 
And  wild  Regret  may  munch  her  bitter  food, 
And  Hope  resurgent  flash  her  crimson  flood 
Unheeded,   where  the  voice  of  Peace  com 
mands. 


O  hour  of  twilight !  Tenderest  hour  of  time ! 
Then  Fancy's  form  shall  pause  with  folded 

wings, 

Reverent  to  know  the  rapture  worship  brings; 
Then  vain  shall  seem  the  play  of  all  the  arts, 
Before  these  murmurings  of  a  love  sublime — 
The  close-linked  flowering  of  perfect  hearts. 


53 


MORNING-GLORIES 

Few  pilgrims  for  your  dewy  purple  care, 
O  rambling  gentle  flower,  for  me  always 
Memorial  of  such  early  blessed  daysl 
What  tender  sigh,  what  depths  of  voiceless 

prayer 

Rise  from  your  fragile  campanile  there ! 
Fashioned  like  ears    that    crimson    at    their 

praise, 

You  shyly  tremble  from  too  rude  a  gaze ; 
And  the  loving  earth  disputes  you  with  the 

air. 


Others  are  more  vociferous  than  this: 
There's  the  hot  peony  blushing  at  her  bliss, 
Quick  pansies,  whispering  of  a  match  begun; 
Gay  Girasole  spins  upon  the  lawn, 
Her  robes  are  flaunted  at  her  gallant  Sun, 
But  yours   are   sparkling  with   the   tears  of 
Dawn. 


54 


VIOLETS 

Violets  that  are  as  buried  treasure  cast 
Into  the  wintry  lap  of  forests  old ! 
Pilgrims  of  dusky  passion  that  enfold 
Within  your  maiden  chalices  a  vast 
Deep  sweet  of  youth !  Who  would  not  stand 

aghast 

To  see  a  rude  foot  crush  you  in  the  mould  ? 
To  scent  your  soft  breath  lure  him  from  the 

cold, 
Who  would  not  turn,  who  would  not  melt  at 

last? 


Flowers,  endue  with  misty  purple  haze 

The  form    of  one    whom    many    eyes    have 

scanned, 

The  flower  of  all  the  flowers  of  the  land ! 
Show  her  the  modest  service  of  your  days, 
Teach  her  to  dwell  content  in  woodland  ways, 
Charming  the  few  who  feel  and  understand. 


55 


ROSES 

Roses,  because  your  soul  is  stainless  white — 
Roses,  because  your  warm  blood  runneth  red 
In  lips  that  will  not  touch  them.    I  have  fled 
Beyond  the  crimson  mountains  of  delight, 
With  feverish  winds,    towards    hotter    skies 

bedight 

With  burning  planets — hither  have  I  sped 
To  pluck  you  these,  where  tranquil  poppies 

shed 
Far  safer  dreams  of  drowsiness  and  night. 


Petals  that  you  have  torn  !  A  waste  of  leaves ! 
Fast-dying  fragrance  of  the  sunnier  days ! 
What  have  dead  flowers  to  do  with  blank 

November  ? 

She  who  knew  not  before  will  not  remember 
Now,  when  the  birds    no     longer   sing    her 

praise, 
When  slow  sad  rain    drips  dully    from    the 

eaves. 


"A  MOMENT'S  ORNAMENT" 

That  whole  day  in  my  fancy  there  had  warred 
Romantic  woodland  longings  with  the  great 
Sad  thoughts  of    greater    souls.     "She    will 

come  late," 

They  said,  but  woke  in  me  no  warning  chord. 
Then  suddenly  upon  the  moonlit  sward 
There  you  were    dancing,    singing    at    Joy's 

gate! 

Was  it  the  heel  of  undiscerning  Fate? 
Was  it  the  right  hand  of  a  pitying  Lord? 


It  shone  above  your  pale  scarf  shimmering 

bright, 

The  face  that  has  been  known  to  many  men : 
A  face  of  ivory  tones  and  dusky  light, 
With  fire-fly  eyes  that  found  me  through  the 

night. 

Long  shall  I  see  you  as  I  saw  you  then — 
A  sylph,  an  Ariel — and  a  Celimene. 


57 


ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBRANCE 

Lest  I  forget  the  amber  of  thine  eyes 

And  cumbering  years  obscure  thy  wistful  face, 

And  sad  expedients  rob  me  of  the  grace 

To  claim   with   candor   what   I    fain   would 

prize — 

Lest  duller  visions  blur  the  smile  that  flies 
And  fleets  on  parted  lips,  and  would  erase 
Thy  wan  charm  hesitant,  to  furnish  place 
For  ordinary  faces  and  their  lies — 


I  store  one  word,  and  that  not  made  to  last; 
One  film  of  gold,  and  that  shall  time  alloy; 
Yet  in  the  night-time   when    the    Needs    are 

dumb, 

And  meaner  voices  for  a  while  succumb, 
I  say  the  word,  ignoring  in  my  joy 
What  waste  of  wrecks  may  strew  the  frozen 

past. 


Never  in  haunts  of  men  or  hurried  mart, 
While  flaunt  the  banners  of  the  garish  day, 
Have    I   perceived   thy   presence;   though   I 

stray 
To  calmer  shades  and  soothe  my  fluttered 

heart, 
Where  life-throbs  pulse   and  urgent  fancies 

dart, 

Plucked  from  the  ugly  fury  of  the  fray — 
Not  always  then,  impatient  as  I  pray, 
Wilt  thou  the  dream  of  thy  dear  grace  impart. 


No    earthly    mansion    thine — but   when    the 

hour 

Of  sleep  steals  sweetly  o'er  the  baffled  soul, 
Clasped  in  the  sure  arm  of  some  awful  power, 
The    while    the    unending    aeons    round    me 

roll- 
Then,  in  the  rest  of  home,  the  peace  of  night, 
Thy  radiant  robes  flfsh  their  supernal  light. 


59 


DREAM  OF  A  TRYST 

There  is  a  spot  in  the  soul's  country,  far 
Exalted  from  the  seething  of  the  street, 
A  place  appointed  where  we  two  should  meet, 
Where  queenly  hearts  and  kingly  powers  are. 
I  dreamt  I  trod  the  way  with  many  a  scar, 
Sick-willed  and  pale,  scant  breath  and  bruised 

feet, 
Borne  onward  by  the  gleam   I  thought  so 

sweet, 
Immutable,  immortal  as  a  star! 


They  only  let  look  within  the  gates — 
I  could  not  see  your  face — I  turned  aside. 
"And  she  not  there,  my  wandering  one!"  I 

cried. 

"My  path  was  strewn  with  briers  by  the  fates, 
My  faith  was     blind    and    still  I    have   not 

quailed, 
But  you,  why  have  you  failed,  why  have  you 

failed?" 


60 


FINIS 

i 
When  you  withdrew  your  hand,  those  other 

hands 

That  held  the  lights  of  heaven  in  their  place 
Fell  all  together,  and  through  saddened  space 
I  heard  that  clangor,  and  through  darkened 

lands. 

When  you  spoke  not,  my  spirit  in  her  bands 
Bowed  down;  that  silence  smote  our  earthly 

race : 

No  birds  would  sing  a  dirge  for  our  disgrace, 
No  voice  of  Christ  could  lay  his  high  com 
mands. 


If  nevermore  your  hand  with  steadfastness 
Uplift  that  light — if  I  may  not  believe 
That  low  and  honied  voice  which  did  confess 
In  all  my  dreams  its  love — I  still  shall  bless 
The  sun-crowned  hills  I  saw;  though  memory 

weave 
Such    grieving   words    that    even    you    must 

grieve. 


61 


LUX  OCEANO 


Drawn  past  the  gasping  dreams  of  Doubt  and 

Wonder, 

I  was  admitted  to  a  hidden  bower; 
There  stood  my  lady-lily  like  a  tower; 
And  I,  forgetful  of  the  months  that  sunder, 
Of  piteous  nights,  of  daily  day-time  blunder, 
Drew  near  and  simply  kissed  her — Ah,  that 

hour! 

Then  certain  sullen  clouds  began  to  lour 
And  the  swift  surf  of  life  swept  up  in  thunder. 


Wisdom,  if  I  could  hold  her  fluttering  hands 
Across  the  chasm  of  a  thousand  miles, 
Hear  the  low  voice  of  her  who  understands, 
And  with  a  sovereign  kiss  assail  her  smiles, 
How  shall  that  ocean  harsh  dismay  my  rime, 
How  shall  I  fear  that  sundering  sword  of 
time  ? 


62 


II 


She  lingered  by  that  ocean's  battling  marge, 
And  chose  life's  shell  and  held  it  to  her  ear. 
Some  marvel  of  strange  voices  deep  and  clear 
She  heard,  a  symphony  subdued  yet  large. 
One  voice  spoke  not — Life    left    it    to    my 

charge 

To  flute  so  wooingly  that  she  must  hear 
A  tale  of  how  a  laughing  boy  could  steer 
Through  sun-touched  riotous  waves  our  silver 

barge. 


"How  can  I    tell,"    she    questioned    with    a 

frown, 

"Since  to  both  ears  there  comes  a  note  of  bliss, 
Where  the  true  secret  and  the  soul-joy  is — 
Whether  the  surge  of  life  or  love's  renown?" 
Over  each  ear  I  placed  a  hand,  drew  down 
Her  face  most  meet  for  silent  ministries. 


ALONE 

Give  up !  There  is  no  way  to  penetrate 
Another's  soul.     Deep-gazing   I  divine 
Far  in  the  waste  of  eyes  I  may  call  mine, 
Or  in  the  answering  body's  clasp  elate 
With  joy  and  life,  the  will  to  share  our  fate- 
And  what  is  mine  is  mine  and  thine  is  thine, 
And  all  inquiring  fervor  must  decline, 
Ending  in  after-passion,  nearer  hate. 


Is  it  a  friend  who  shares  your  inmost  thought? 
Heaven  pity  him !  He  knows  the  foam,  the 

lees, 

The  savor;  as  one  thinks  he  loves  the  trees 
Because  October's  fading  foliage  caught 
His  fancy;  best  to  keep  our  cells  unsought, 
Our  prisoner's  crust,  our  couch  of  little  ease. 


64 


TO  A  PORTRAIT  BY  SHANNON 

I  think  that  in  your  bowed  head's  pensive 

pose 

Shadow  and  love  and  love  and  shadow  meet; 
I  think  those  faint  eyes  ne'er  were  made  to 

greet 

Man's  eyes  alight ;  and  yet  I  know  the  rose, 
The  sudden  carmine  of  your  visage  glows 
With  wondering  hope   at  sound  of  hurried 

feet, 
And  his  strong  arm  shall  bear  you  from  your 

seat, 
And  your  lax  form  shall  start,  as  under  blows. 


She  seems  part  dove,  part  fawn,   and  all  a 

maid; 

For  like  the  one  she  stilly  waits  her  love ; 
And  like  the  other  is  her  pretty  fright; 
O  Lady,  let  me  praise  and  take  delight 
From  overseas !    Fear  not,  O  Fawn,  O  Dove, 
My  ardor  too  remote  to  make  afraid. 


"THE  GOLDEN  ROSE" 

In  ample  Paradise,  when  all  was  known 
Save  Knowledge,  and  the  heavy  hinting  hours 
Stole  with  a  whispered  portent  past  the  bow 
ers 
Which  the  first  pair  had  made,   Eve  stood 

alone 
One  brooding  Sabbath  noon,  when  joy  had 

flown — 

Alone,  on  tiptoe,  trampling  on  all  flowers, 
And  rosy-limbed  and  reaching  for  new  Pow 
ers, 
She  plucked  a  Painted  Apple  for  her  own ! 


On  lofty  Monserrat,  where  angels'  wings 
Swept  nearer  than  we  know,  we  may  believe 
That  One  in  samite  for  boys'  lips  held  up — 
No  Golden  Rose — a  lowly  service-cup. 
No  Golden  Roses  live  with  mortal  things; 
And  Perceval — did  he  not  find  his  Eve? 


66 


A  SINGER  AT  A  MATINEE 

There  was  a  flush,  a  flash,  a  golden  note, 
A  sudden  hint  of  starlight  and  of  eve; 
A  roll  of  waters  and  of  winds  that  grieve 
Amid  strong  triumph  pealing  from  her  throat; 
Then  you  were  lulled  as  in  a  faery  boat 
On  faery  lakes,  and  you  were  made  to  leave 
All  the  old  lands  that  lure  us  and  deceive 
For  lands  whereof  no  mortal  ever  wrote. 


Beside  me  sat  a  child.    This  was  her  place, 
This  faery  lake !    Such  light  shone  from  her 

face 

That  knew  no  world  of  compromise  and  pain. 
But  when  the  last  note  brought  the  burst  of 

cheers, 
The  child  grew  up,  shivered  and  said  with 

tears, 
"Mother,  why  did  she  stop?   It's  day  again." 


CASAUBON  TO  DOROTHEA 

You  liked  the  statue  in  the  Vatican, 

And  thought  I  should  have  looked  with  you  ? 

That  we — 

(Oh,  Dorothea,  had  you  tried  to  see 
Within     the   scholar's     husk   the   struggling 

man !) 

I  had  my  scruples:  in  this  earthly  span 
Each  fleeting  form  is  folly.  Vide  "Key." 
(And  bitterness  was  all  you  brought  to  me!) 
They  worshipped  mice  in  Tyre  and  Hindoos- 
tan. 


Madam,  you  could    not    comprehend;    your 

mind 

Knew  neither  scholar's  doubt  nor  poet's  pain. 
(But  once  I  thought  her  tears  were  blessed 

rain 

To  draw  a  budding  soul — oh,  lost!)  I  find 
In  Pope  and  in  Propertius  mention  kind 
Of  husk  that  holds  a  living  golden  grain. 


68 


NEBULOUS 

Is  it  the  mist  that  crushes  us — the  dim 
Restraining  smoke  of  earth  which  glides  and 

binds, 

Mysteriously  troubling  as  it  winds? 
The  sun  leers  down,  an  eye  without  a  rim, 
That  sees  too  well.  Shall  we  not  question  him 
Of  trees  phantasmal  to  our  cumbered  minds? 
Each  drifting  sound  a  dubious  echo  finds. 
Music  ?  The  frail  clear  laugh  of  seraphim ! 


Veiled  are  the  summits  which  would  doom 

our  wills; 

But  yonder  through  her  vestiture  of  trees, 
Blurring  the  subtler  surer  symphonies, 
Rushes  the  vision  of  Delight  that  kills — 
The  slope  of  shoulders  brighter  than  the  hills, 
The  gleam  of  eyes  more  wayward  than  the 

breeze ! 


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